EGG-GATE

.. Or Part II of the goose egg drama 

SINCE I dived in to the alien world of the small-holder, when I moved to the Scottish Borders from Soho in 2011, I've learned some weird and wonderful things like how to unblock an egg-bound hen using olive oil and hot steam and how to give a reluctant cockerel a wash 'n' blow dry and foot spa to get rid of a red mite infestation.

 But I think my latest foray into animal husbandry takes some beating. Recently I regaled you with the tale of my goose Vera whose attempt to build a nest and lay some eggs was being thwarted by a scavenging weasel or stoat.

 Vera then seemed to throw in the towel and stopped laying altogether. A friend of mine suggested I put a handful of golf balls inside her nest to encourage her to carry on ... and it worked. The Toulouse goose started laying more eggs and, as a precaution, I took a couple and replaced them with more golf balls to deter the intruder. Seemingly unaware of this duplicity Vera has carried on laying and yesterday she began sitting on the nest full-time.

 The nest is inside a ramshackled lean-to hubby built last year when Vera laid more than a dozen eggs - none of which hatched. The previous year she only hatched one but sadly Peewee, her offspring, was taken by a fox just as his feathers were starting to come through.

The job of returning the eggs

would prove more difficult 

 So you see Vera's attempts at motherhood have been punctuated with failure and tragedy which I think has also been reflected in Jack the gander's moods.

HATCHING HOUSE: Jack guards the
outside while Vera sits on her nest

 Now that she has moved out of the goose house full-time to sit on the eggs, Jack has been patrolling outside with all the ferocity of a pit bull backed up by Bluebell. Trying to return the two eggs I'd taken previously has not been an easy task. Whenever Vera has taken a break from sitting on the eggs Bluebell steps in and Jack is never far away from guarding the lean-to. This time all three geese are determined that there will be a new generation to rear and follow them.

Even the arrival of the postman, who now no longer gets out of his mail van, has failed to distract Jack from his sentry duty and nor could he be bribed by a bag of tasty morsels. As you can see from my amateur video, Jack is not in the mood for shenanighans.

 Eventually, after using some stealth I managed to put the two eggs down next to Vera last night as she was napping and this morning I noticed they were safely tucked under her along with the golf balls. Incubation is going to take between 28 and 35 days so I'm hopeful we might have some goslings before the General Election in the UK on May 7.

FEATHERING HER NEST: Vera pulls feathers from her ches

to line the nest including golf balls as well as eggs!

 Of course there's many a slip between then and now. We have to keep the area fox free and Vera will be most vulnerable at night after dusk. There's also a large badger sett nearby so we need to ensure that they're not around - one badger did take Queenie, a swedish Kohn goose from her nest the day before they were due to hatch back in 2013 hence hubby's decision to build the lean-to around the nest.

 If you have any tips please let me know. Hopefully the next reports on Jack and Vera will be happy ones.

ANOTHER MYSTERY WHODUNNIT ... AND IT'S NOT MR FOX!

.. Chief suspect still four legged and furry

 REGULARS to this blog know all about the trials and tribulations I've experienced since quitting the high life in Soho for the good life in the Scottish Borders more than three years ago.

WEASEL snapped trying to pop a goose 

egg

 The chief architect of my misery has always been the fox - and at every turn they (there's been a few) have wiped out my entire turkey flock apart from one very nervous Bourbon Red called Ant; possibly one goose, definitely more than 20 hens, an aviary of white doves, a couple of peafowl, a few domestic pheasant and a couple of guineau fowl.
 Over the winter months, apart from a couple of sightings of a small fox, my little menangerie has escaped unscathed and now that we are full swing in to Spring we're still ever vigilant for Mr Fox.
 However we now have a new mystery - not quite a murder one - unless you subscribe to life beginning in the egg. Vera, one of my Toulouse geese has laid around a dozen over the last couple of weeks in a small lean to built by hubby in 2014 when she began nesting last Spring.

LINE UP OF SUSPECTS: Stoat, weasel and ferret, whodunnit?

 Each night she heads back to her usual home to sleep and every morning she goes to her lean-to to lay an egg. I noticed the other day some of the eggs were smashed which caused no amount of outrage from Jack, the gander.

 He has now taken to attacking anything with a pulse and even the postman refuses to leave the safety of his delivery van these days, so ferocious is Jack.

 I removed two eggs the other day after Vera managed to amass four - just in case the peacocks or guineau fowl were sneaking in and nicking the eggs.
 By last night she'd amassed half a dozen  and I thought any day now she'll start to sit full time on her collection but this morning, as you can see from my short video, I found fragments of smashed egg shell. I'd secured the lean-to last night after I'd locked up the rest of the birds and the peafowl had gone to roost, so I knew the egg thief must be an outside as opposed to an inside job.

 Since the lean-to was locked I knew it was fox and badger proof so I started to ask around among countrywise folk. I couldn't understand what had got in to eat the eggs. We've now narrowed it down to a number of suspects: Rats, stoats, weasels or ferrets.

 Somehow I don't think it's rats. Since I introduced three partly feral cats the rat and mice population has drastically been reduced ... and that could be the problem. These creatures are natural prey to stoats, weasels and ferrets so if there are any hanging around the farm their regular rodent diet has been severely disrupted.

 So how to solve the problem before Vera stops laying any more eggs. Balls! Golf balls to be precise. I've placed them on Vera's nest and as I type she's just sat on the nest to lay another egg. I will

remove that and slip in another golf ball tonight.
 The plan is when Vera starts sitting full time I will somehow replace the balls with the real eggs I collected previously.
 I'm not sure if this is going to work so keep following and I will give updates. As usual, any feedback and/or advice would be most welcome.
 As you can see from the last video Vera is hacked off and Jack is more angry than usual - even wanting to bite the hand that feeds him which is really disconcerting since I'm not usually targetted by the gander.

TO BE FRANK

..OR how pleasant pheasant is turning into a stalker

FRANKLY I'm not impressed with Spring 

2015

 IT'S the mating season and don't we know it.
 The gardens are ringing with a variety of sounds as song birds pair up with their ideal mates and busy themselves building nests.
 Even Horatio the Scots Dumpy cockerel has got his mojo back. Not only has he found his cock-a-doodle-do but he is finally fulfilling his role in the hen pen with gusto.

FRANKLY I'm not interested,  says 

Thumberlina as Frank looks on

 As regulars to this blog know, my rare breed Scots Dumpys were nearly wiped out some months ago by a couple of foxes that broke in to their crees overnight. Only five survived and they've been in a terrible state ever since.
 However now they have a new challenge ... an overly amorous pheasant who is either too lazy to find his ideal partner or he thinks he is a rooster! I'm not sure which, at the moment, because he has started acting like a cockerel around the hens.
 He starts furiously grunting and pecking at the ground as though he's just found a secret stash of corn or tasty morsels. It's a well tried and tested ruse used by most cockerels to attract curious hens and for some bizarre reason it seems to work with alarming frequency. However, while it works for Horatio the other Scots Dumpys are none too impressed by Frank's persistent antics and, as a result, when they see him coming they give him the cold shoulder, or the hen equivalent.

 I've shot two little video here so you can bear witness to Frank's antics. Last month his focus was purely on the white hen Thumberlina but now he has extended his repartee to the others and they're just not interested, as you can see from the clip on the right.
 In my second video, below,
you can see and hear him rutting around to attract everyone's attention, but the hens are singularly unimpressed by his performance.
 Despite being semi wild, poor Frank has now taken to stalking the feathered females inside and around their hen pen. Horatio has avoided confontation so far but I can see trouble down the line if Frank continues to stalk the Dumpys.
                                                                                 
It's such a shame we can't find him a female companion as his scarlet face mask looks quite stunning and while I'm sure he'd rock a few boats in the pheasant world he's simply not cutting the mustard as far as the hens are concerned.
 He-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is reckons there's only one solution; he thinks we should eat Frank! Of course that's his solution to most problems: let's eat it before the fox does.
 However dear readers, I promise here and now that whatever fate has in store for our white cock pheasant it won't be as a table bird.
 My response to hubby was not dissimilar to the final line of the classic 1939 film Gone With The Wind as Clark Gable turns to Vivien Leigh and says: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

STRING UP LITTER LOUTS

.. Or, more countryside trials

FARMERS have a reputation for being grumpy old gits and I think I'm morphing in to one!
 As I become more immersed into matters countryside, I am increasingly looking down with scorn and disdain on "the townies" and beginning to realise just how frustrating they can be.
 There is a wee bit of hypocrisy here, I know, because having spent 15 years living in Soho I probably epitomised a typical city dweller ... the slightest whiff of a rural smell would send me scurrying for a canned spray of 'fresh countryside air' (oh the irony!)

HOW LONG is this piece of string? Hard to tell since it's knotted

and looped firmly around the legs of the peahen

 I remember sneering when 400,000 country folk marched through central London in September 2002 to highlight the needs of rural communities and express outrage over the proposed ban on fox hunting with dogs in England and Wales.
 Now, having experienced and witnessed firsthand the devastation the fox can cause in rural communities, I'd be putting on my wellies, jeans and Barbour jacket to join them.
 I now realise the importance of closing gates, driving slowly around countryside lanes especially during the lambing season, waiting patiently as sheep are herded down a road while being transferred from one field to another and picking up litter as I go out for a stroll.
 There's nothing more infuriating than finding an empty pop can that someone's thrown away ... apart from a sheep finding it first and cutting its foot. And so, when I saw one of my peahens limping a few days back I spewed out a load of curse words.

IN DISTRESS: Unhappy peahen grabbed after flailing around

on the ground, helpless

 The poor bird had somehow managed to get both her feet tied in a knot of carelessly discarded orange string. From where it came I don't know but it wasn't from the bales of hay and straw I use. I always make a point of giving twine like that to my elderly neighbour who is a keen gardener and he recycles such things for his vegetable patch when tying back plants.
 The peahen spent most of the day sitting, perched on the roof while I spent most of the day waiting for her to come down. I could see she was becoming increasingly distressed and I knew if I couldn't catch her then she would fall prey to a fox.
 By dusk all of the peafowl head towards one of the tallest trees on the land and there they perch high up out of the way of any predator, so I knew I had to catch her while it was still daylight. As it happened, shortly before dusk I found her flapping helpessly on the ground near the trees and was able to throw my jacket over her and take her into the kitchen.
 She struggled and made an awful honking sound which set off the other peafowl who responded to the distress call in similar fashion. While I held her wings down she started to use her beak to lash out as I think she thought her time was up.

PEAHEN cautiously watches me watching

her watching me, after string drama

GINGERLY stepping out 24 hours after 

stepping in to some discarded string

 Painstakingly, using a pair of scissors, I managed to cut away the string which had caused flesh wounds at the top of her legs and took her back outside where she shrieked and flew up in to the tree to join her seven comrades.
 Today she seemed none the worse for her experience but kept a safe distance from me as I threw out some bird seed. If I could get my hands on the idiot who tossed away that string without a second thought I would probably be making garters now out of his guts.

A HINT OF SPRING BRINGS ... CONFUSION

Or how some birds are having an identity & gender crisis ..

PHEASANT SURPRISE: He's looking for a mate but Frank sits on the 

fence when it comes to finding the right one

 SPRING might not have yet sprung but it is clear from the activity of the birds they sense it's just around the corner. However, there has been an array - and display - of confusing antics from some of the birds here in the Borders.
 For instance Frank, my white pheasant, is obviously in need of a mate but his amorous intentions towards the hens, in particular Thumberlina, have caused quite a flap.
 His little grunts, dance and wing display infront of the Scots Dumpys has caused Horatio, the cockerel, no end of alarm and despite his own wing-flapping and aggressive stance towards the romeo pheasant, Frank

THUMBERLINA is not at all interested

in anyone but Horatio the cockerel

appears to be undeterred. He is, without doubt, lonely and has been ever since a fox took his mate last year. However trying to get my hands on a white hen pheasant has proved challenging to say the least.
 White pheasants are unusual and the reason why Frank has probably survived the local shooting season two years running is that veteran hunters do their best to avoid bringing down white pheasants as some shoots impose penalties (for fun) which can run into hundreds of pounds.
 But loneliness is not just affecting Frank. The most recent to lose his companions - Ant my Bourbon Red turkey - has started to try and strut his stuff among a bevvy of new peahens who arrived last autumn. Fanning his feathers like the adult peacocks is just not impressing, or fooling, anyone and I'm having to decide if I should consign him to the cooking pot or get him some new turkey friends.

DOWN IN THE DUMPS: Poor Ant

THIS WAY LADIES: I'm a peacock
not a turkey, seriously!

 He either looks manically depressed (eyes left) or is trying to copy the Indian and white peacocks, and failing miserably which sends him into the utter depths of despair, (eyes right).

 But perhaps the strangest sight of all is brought to you courtesy of one of four peahens I acquired from a place near Dundee towards the end of last year. The quartet are aged between eight and eighteen months old and were brought in after it became clear the peacocks were facing a severe shortage of companions from the opposite sex.

 However, as the following photographs show, there's some confusion over the exact role the peahens will be playing when Spring is finally sprung.

 

 This one has gone all butch and  started fanning her feathers out like her male counterparts. She's barely a year old but she looks so funny as she twirls around spreading out her meagre display of quills followed by the stamping of her feet.
 Her three mates look on bemused and bewildered but she just started doing this, especially on a morning, in response to the peacocks doing exactly the same. However, as you can see from the photographs below, they actually have plumage worthy of spreading and showing off. Their displays can be quite stunning and impressive and yet their feathers are still not fully developed.

COPY ME: It seems some of the otherbirds

are copying Harry & his mates

 Ed, photographed in full display below, arrived unwanted from a posh place near Warwick where his loud, rooftop screeching was driving local folk mad. He is one of two Indian peacocks, the other being Albert who lost his 'Victoria' to the fox last year.

INSPIRING: Ed shows of his new feathers

 Joining Ed and Albert is Harry, above right, a bit of a dandy who has just started to get all of his white feathers back after going through a bit of a shabby stage. His partner Philomenia was one of two white peahens but her companion became yet another victim of the fox in 2014.
 On an evening all of the peafowl roost in one of the tallest trees nearby and don't come down until they are sure the area is fox-free. I'm hopeful they will remain as alert throughout the coming year although, despite all the foxes taken by the local Jed Forest hunt, I saw one blighter just before dusk a few days ago. I swear he was grinning as he looked back towards me.

HOOTS MON* ...

.. "It's a braw bricht moonlicht nicht the nicht."

EYES WIDE SHUT: Fred being placed back in 

his Achica box after a feed

 IT WAS freezing cold but the night sky was illuminated by a full, bright moon in a star-studded sky.

 I had been following a big log-carrying lorry towards the Scottish Borders and was driving with extreme caution due to black ice when I noticed something fluffy, swirling around by the lorry's downdraft as we approached Catcleugh Reservoir just north of Otterburn.

 Ever curious - even at 2am - I slowed down and then reversed quarter of a mile until I found what I was looking for ... there, sitting blinking in the middle of the road was a Tawny owl looking slightly dazed and confused.

 As I walked towards the little fellow I half expected him to flap his wings and vanish but he sat there and allowed me to pick him up. His only response was to dig his talons around my fingers as though he was seeking some sort of comfort or reassurance that he was safe. Well that's what I thought anyway.

 I phoned ahead to he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is to tell him to expect another guest and then told the story. Hubby is always peeved these little adventures happen when he's not around and so tried to remain unimpressed with my find when I arrived home.

TIRED & UNEMOTIONAL: Fred looks fed-up

with life

 After a quick check on Google I found an old Achica box and fashioned it in to the sort of home a tawny Owl would feel comfortable in and then put him in an outhouse for what remained of the night.

 The following morning I called an animal helpline but it was so busy I decided to try and sort out my feathered companion myself, via picking up information on the 'net.
 Surprisingly, my new best friend was uber calm making me wonder if he was, perhaps, still dazed and confused. He allowed me to pick him up, this time I was wearing red gloves so when he dug in his talons the experience was not as painful as it had been the night before.
 He didn't flap his wings and he allowed me to stroke his feathers.
 I called a friend of mine who keeps birds of prey and he suggested I try feeding the bird with day old chicks and let me have three which I set about chopping and skinning. Not a pleasant task and as it turned out, the owl could not be tempted by the bloody morsels.
 After consulting another owl website I managed to persuade him to take a couple of spoonfuls of catfood but it was obvious he needed specialist help.
 Within half an hour of calling the Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (suggested via Twitter by some friends) a wonderful lady arrived in her SSPCA van and inspected Fred; he was named by my daughter.
 The lady, obviously far more experienced at handling owls than me, spread out his wings out and felt around his body and concluded that nothing seemd broken. He was, she said, very boney and underweight suggesting he might just be weak, stressed and in shock which would explain his apathetic appearance.
 She placed him gently in an appropriate owl-carrying box and said he would be cared for in a wildelife centre in Alloa, Clackmannashire until he gets better. She did say she'd let me know of his progress and, of course, I shall pass on any news to you via this blog.
 The SSPCA does a grand job so if you have any pennies to spare you can donate here as they help all sorts of creatures in distress.

* Hoots Mon: Was in the pop charts in 1958 and you can download now for those of you who want to take a trip down Memory Lane

A Year in Review

.. Or, The A to Z of 2014

ANT & DEC: Best friends, soul mates and inseperable until

the fox intervened

A is for Ant, the last of the turkeys. Since he arrived in 2013 the ubiquitous Mr Fox has taken all of his companions including 8 Bourbon Red and 9 Norfolk Bronze turkeys. His soul mate Dec was snatched off a wall by a fox just last week and Ant is inconsolable. I now have to decide if it would be kinder to serve him on a plate or start looking around for new mates.

B is for Billy Goat and Rolo is absolutely magnificent and not yet fully grown. He's a British Primitive Goat which was once known as the Old English/Scottish/Welsh/Irish, British Landrace or Old British Goat. The breed descends from the first farmers in the Neolithic period and was moved around by Celts, marauding Vikings and Saxons. These goats are almost predator proof and are largely used these days for Conservation Grazing and scrub clearance.

C is for cat and I've got two types of felines on the farm - three feral who go about their work unseen but have reduced the rat population to virtually nil and are unsung heros and three pampered indoor cats who have eradicated - it seems - the mice population.

D is for dog and I've not yet got one because I'm in a bit of a dilemma at what breed to choose. Should I get a dog(s) it will defintely be an outdoors animal designed purely to ward off or attack foxes otherwise security is left to the geese who already do a cracking job. The problem is I can't have a dog(s) that might stray off into neighbouring farmland and end up being shot on sight by farmers who need to protect their sheep and lambs. Any advice please let me know.

E is for eggs and they're in very short supply at the moment, partly because it's winter and partly because my remaining five hens are still in a state of shock after more than 20 of their companions were slaughtered by a couple of foxes who broke in to their compound.

ROLO: British Primitive Goat & expectant

father of four in the Spring

F is for Frank my white pheasant. He's a lovely, friendly little chap who has survived two shooting seasons but alas he is lonely after his female partner disappeared earlier in the year. Despite that he's tried to mate with any white bird he sees which has caused consternation in the hen house and a bit of a flap with Philomenia my white peahen who defintely thinks he's punching above his weight.

JACK, master of all he surveys ... he's owned

the postman several times too!

G is for geese and they are the talk of the launderette in the Borders. Led by ferocious gander Jack, Vera and Bluebell have earned notoriety among the postmen, couriers and delivery men and women who come to our door ... and then run like hell after being ambushed by the geese. Better than any watchdog, that's for sure. Let's hope 2015 will see a successful breeding program between Jack and Vera the two Toulouse geese.

H are for hens and 2014 was a rollercoaster year for my rare breed Scots Dumpys. Having assembled some beautiful specimens from the Isle of Wight, Northampton, Cheshire, Manchester and Biggar a successful breeding programme got underway headed by cockerels Horatio and Napoleon. Their fame spread far and wide and they were used foir farmyard scenes in an American hit TV series focussing on 17th century Scotland called Outlander. Tragedy struck a few months back when atleast two foxes tunneled their way into the hen compound killing most of the occupants. Horatio survived but lost his cock-a-doodle-do and most of his neck feathers while the last four surviving females have not laid an egg for two months now.

HORATIO: In the good old days when

he could cock-a-doodle-do

I is for Insecta, the scientific classification for the common honeybee and at the moment I'm the proud owner of six colonies. While 2013 provided a bumper crop, last year was rather disappointing in honey terms but I'm hopeful this year the bees will really start doing the business ... if they survive the weather. One colony has already been destroyed thanks to 100mph gales which blew over the hive and scattered the occupants inside.

J is for the Jed Forest Hunt. In 2013 I told them to steer clear of my land but the following year went cap in hand and asked them for help with my fox problem. In the last year they and their supporters have reported 49 dead foxes ... and they still keep on coming. Who said country foxes are heading for the cities - the blighters continue to wreak havoc here in the Borders.

THUMBERLINA remain the

only white Scots Dumpy in the pen

K is for kak, a word I learned during a trip to Johannesburg in 2014 and it means simply: "Shit". And let's face it, since my herd of goats arrived I'm shovelling plenty of it these days as they are being stabled during the winter before I let them loose to munch there way through scrubland and generally tidy up the fields. And when I'm not cleaning up after the goats the geese keep me fully occupied - on average each one poops 30 times a day. There's certainly plenty of shit around the farm. 

HANGING around waiting for

night fall; one of the bats

L is for Laurasiatheria which is the scientific name for placental mammals originating from the northern supercontinent of Laurasia. It includes shrews, hedgehogs and bats which brings me on nicely (yes, I know a tad contrived) to bats and there's loads of the low-flying little fellas around here. I've not yet got that close up to any that I can identify with any degree of confidence.

M is for milk and hubby is hoping our pregnant nanny goats will be a great source to make butter and cheese from once they've had their kids in the spring. It seems the billy, Rolo, is quite the stud as all four of his nannies are now in the family way.

N is for noise and the chief reason why I invested in a dozen guinea fowl in the autumn of 2014. The little blighters maraud noisily around the farm and produce a frenzied feathered klaxon noise if something untoward comes in to their view ... ie the fox. 

O is for Owl and I'm seriously considering either offering a home to a rescue owl or buying a baby barn owl (with certificate) to rear. There's something very calming about owls ... watch this space.

ALBERT shows off his plumage in preparation for Spring '15

P is for peafowl and I'm really looking forward to seeing mine in full feather for 2015. I've two adult Indian peacocks King Ed and Albert, a pair of white peafowl Harry and Philomenia and four peahens so that Ed, Albert and Harry don't fall out. They're beautiful birds, very curious and on an evening they perch in the highest Scots Pine tree in the woods - very noisy but so enchanting.

Q is for Queen Bee and I'm hoping my ladies will survive the winter and continue to lead their honeybee colonies on to great things for 2015. They're all marked with a dot denoting the year of their birth and by my reckoning they should be firing on all six cylinders very soon.

RESOLUTION for 2015: To take part in the Return to the Ridings

R is for Return to the Ridings. The Borders are deeply entwined with the turbulent era of the Border Reivers who ruthlessly raided lands on either side of the Anglo-Scots border from the 13th to the 17 centuriues. I am determined to get a horse and join in the fun known as the Ridings. From Hawick, Selkirk, Jedburgh, Langholm and Lauder the festivities can carry on for two weeks and is part of the pageantry.

S is for Soho 2 Silo, this blog which is great fun to write as I share my (mis)adventures with you but to all of those who said I wouldn't last six weeks in the countryside after two decades in Soho, I think I've proved you wrong. Thanks to everyone who has given their feedback, please keep up your support, shared stories and nuggets of information - I need as much help as possible as many of you know.

TUBBY Bluebell became so obese 

she couldn't stand on her feet!

T is for Tubby and while most of the animals keep in trim Bluebell  rather disgraced herself. So much so towards the end of 2014 she had to go on a crash diet when she became too heavy to move. She was put on grass and water for a week until she was back on her feet again. Much to the annoyance of her two companions Jack and Vera they also had to share the same spartan diet.

UGLY? No way but noisy yes; one of the
Dirty Dozen.

U is for Ugly and I was a wee bit offended on behalf of my Guineau Fowl when a passerby said they were ugly birds! Of course I didn't buy the so-called 'Dirty Dozen' for their good looks but for their rowdy, hooligan-style behaviour and they've not let me down so far. They are probably the most unpopular birds with all the other animals because they make one hell of a racket, hunt in a group and attack anything that gets in their way - apart from Jack the Gander, of course.
They are super efficient as they go through the land hunting out bugs and slugs and will not stop for anything as they hunt in one large gang. What they might lack in looks they certainly make up for in energy and enthusiasm as they go about their business in their dark grey suits.

V is for Vets and the only animals that have needed medical attention so far are my indoor cats who require an annual flu injection and the occasional manicure! Although I am wondering if I should try and see if there's such a think as a Chicken Whisperer for my hens. They are still shook up after the fox invasion of their hen pen and it's now been a couple of months.

W is for White Doves and I've not had a good year with these little birds. The first lot succumbed to a nesting pair of Peregrine Falcons but undeterred I brought in another lot from a farm in Wolsingham. The latter escaped on the first day and flew back but undeterred I went and retrieved them holding them in an aviary for several weeks. Just the day before they were due for release a fox tunnelled under the frame and massacred all but one. The survivor, called Hope, now has five new mates - all fantails from Nottingham and they are pairing up just now.

LAST WORD: But not in 2015. I'm 

determined the year of the fox is over

X is often used to represent the unknown, if I remember my Algebra classes correctly and 2015 is a bit of an unknown for me. I'm not sure what new animals I will introduce this year - if any at all. Suggestions, as usual aew welcome.

PLOTTING an escape or planning a suicide - with sheep like

these two Zwartbles you just never know.

Y is for Yawn and I know I've bored you all rigid with stories and dramas of the foxes that have plagued my stock in 2014, but I'm hoping that 2015 will bring in a totally new era in which the fox does not feature.

Z is for a rare breed of sheep called Zwartbles and I kept two for a few months last year. Regular readers of this column will known I'm not a big fan of sheep; they're subversive animals with two missions: To die or to run away. However he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is has a taste for sheep, especially mutton and so I will not be too surprised if I see more of the woolly demons make an appearance in the pastures some time this year.
 In the meantime, I wish you all the best for 2015 and hope you succeed in whatever you set out to do. Please keep the comments and suggestions coming. Have a great year.